


First Snow

by honeybun



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Feel Good Filth, Fluff, M/M, Slight Sugar Daddy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun
Summary: For Credence Barebone, snow usually means standing in slush and handing out leaflets, usually means a freezing cold ache which penetrates deep down into his bones and doesn't leave until late March.However, this year is different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've decided to start posting my little fics on here too~ 
> 
> You can find me @ weepingstar on tumblr <3

It’s late in January, and much colder than it had been even during Christmas and New Year. There’s frost in the air on Monday morning, the path is icy on Tuesday, and by Wednesday when Mr. Graves returns home, little flakes of snow make their way in past the threshold while Graves gives Credence his coat to hang. Graves tells Credence that the snow is likely to get heavier tonight, best to wrap up warm, asks if the house elves have set out another thick blanket for Credence’s bed yet.

For Credence, there’d never been a year in which snow had brought anything but a feeling of terror to his heart. Just the promise of terribly chapped skin, numb and aching joints, constant shivering and chattering teeth.

This year, _this time_ , Credence often finds himself saying, is different.

Mr. Graves builds up a large fire every evening when he returns from work, and therefore, Credence realises, he always smells like firewood and smoke, his evening cigars and perhaps a little like Firewhiskey (Credence doesn’t say anything, keeps it to himself, thinks about it _a lot_ ).

His blankets are more downy and soft and warm than he could have ever rightly dreamed of before, his meals hot and served three times a day. Credence had, at first, had some trouble with the concept of regular meals, had hidden food just in case, had expected it all to be cruelly taken away from him in a moment. Graves never did that of course, never mentioned Credence sneaking food away, had only assured him there was more and it was _alright_ now. Credence knows now that there are times when Graves expects him to eat, knows he asks the house elves to keep an eye on him anyway, tells Credence he’s allowed to snack in between, always allowed to ask for more.

On January the 24th, when snow falls thickly for the first time that year, in the wee hours of the morning, Credence wakes up with something he recognises as childish joy instead of a bone-deep cold. His brain works quickly to imagine how he might persuade Mr. Graves out for a walk in the park with him - he still isn’t comfortable going out alone, likes the reassuring feel of his Graves there with him - perhaps to take a stroll to the bakery on the corner, or to the roasted chestnut vendor. Maybe when they return Credence could make a cup of coffee for Mr. Graves, a hot chocolate for himself, and they could watch the snow together from the warmth of the back room which looks out onto their little garden. Graves would pretend to read the sporting section of the newspaper, and Credence would pretend to read his book, they both might accidentally meet eyes when gazing at the other but neither would say anything.

Yes, certainly, this year is different.

One thing in particular that Credence can’t believe is that, in letting himself hope, in letting himself dream he might enjoy such things, they often happen as if by magic. Mr. Graves asks him if he’d like a walk, he holds tightly onto Credence as they walk down the icy steps of Mr. Graves' brownstone, he puts Credence’s hand in the crook of his elbow afterwards. Credence has an almost-disaster when he slips on some nasty ice, Graves is lightning quick in catching his hand before he falls, and concerns himself for close to ten minutes that Credence is okay, no they don’t need to return home, no I haven’t twisted my ankle Mr. Graves, no I don’t want to be carried, thank you.

Upon arriving back, Graves gently suggests that Credence might make them a warm drink, and bring it to the back room as Graves lays some more logs on the fire. What Credence returns to he never quite expected, firstly, there is a small plate of his favourite raspberry and custard tarts sitting on the table which are already making his mouth water. Secondly, a mysterious package has appeared, and is sitting on his preferred armchair, wrapped in a rich red tissue paper. Credence looks at Graves, who has lifted his eyes from the newspaper to look at him, who then nods towards the package,

“Don’t tell anyone I’ve been giving you presents so soon after Christmas, they’ll think I’ve gone soft,” Mr. Graves winks at him.

Credence goes to the parcel, and with shaky fingers carefully peels apart the tissue paper. He doesn’t know why he never gets used to Graves’ kindness, this might not even be the twentieth or so present Graves has given him, excluding how he spoilt Credence at Christmas, but Credence doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this man’s generosity.

It’s a scarf, one Credence had greedily spied in Wizarding Vogue the other week, had wistfully thought of how the silky royal blue looked like woven magic with the gold swirls adorning it. He had coveted it shamefully. About to refuse, and trembling a little at the thought, Credence hadn’t realised that Graves had put aside his paper, leaned forward to take the scarf from Credence’s numb fingers, and was now carefully looping it around the boy’s neck, tucking it in at the base of his throat.

“Silly of me not to have given it to you before our walk, do forgive me, Credence.”

Graves sits himself back down into his chair, ruffles his papers to find his place, and shucks his boots off to warm his socked feet by the fire. Credence runs a hand over the fabric of the scarf, as soft and magical as he had imagined. He stares at the floor for a moment, nervously flicking his eyes towards Graves who’s pretending not to have noticed Credence’s silence, how the boy’s fingers are now twisting together nervously, how he’s rolling up and down on the balls of his feet.

Credence bends down a little, leans into Graves’ space, and chastely presses a kiss to the side of a stubbly cheek, quietly murmuring a “thank-you, Mr. Graves,“ before finding his own place, tucking his feet up underneath him, and nibbling his favourite raspberry and custard tarts. Graves shuffles about his papers and clears his throat a little, Credence can see how the wrinkles around his eyes crinkle with a barely concealed smile. 

This year is wonderfully different.


End file.
